It's Always Time

by Oblimo

  Dee bit down until his teeth clicked together.

  The green girl's eyes rolled up into her head and she peeled away, swooning to the floor. "Master," she gurgled as Dee chewed thoughtfully. "Oh, Master." She writhed on the linoleum, rolling over to paw up his legs. "I'm in you now," she sighed, rising, "I'm in you."

  Dee swallowed. "Why do you taste like a cupcake?"

  The green girl's unwrought fingers fumbled with the zipper of Dee's khakis. "Now come into me," she said, giving up on the zipper and pulling the pants apart at the seams, "and I'll taste however you want." She yanked the khakis and underwear down around Dee's knees, the plastic of the toilet lid hard and cold against his ass. "Cum in me," the green girl said, "and we'll be perfect. Together. Forever."

  Dee felt absurd sitting there, awaiting service like some enthroned king of fools. You've treated her like crap and now she's got you on the toilet. Take the hint, take your lumps, and do what she wants you to do for a change. "Is it time?" he asked, smiling.

  "It's my time," the green girl growled, and devoured his cock.

  Panic thrilled through Dee and he startled upward. The green girl sat up on her haunches, scooped up handfuls of his butt and aimed his hips at her mouth. Dee's jump away from the seat only drove his dick further down the velvety vortex of her throat. For a moment of woozy free fall the green girl held him suspended in the air, cradling his ass and slurping on his cock, treating his pelvis like a big, juicy wedge of watermelon—Strong. How could she be so strong?—before she slammed him back down onto the toilet hard enough to crack the ceramic. Her cold lips worried the base of his shaft, her fingers digging into the meat of his ass. She hauled him forward, pivoting her face against his lap—What is she doing—and Dee felt his rock hard dick plough up through the gel of her neck and stab, not down her throat, but upward until—Oh my God what the fuck—the green girl was literally giving him head. She groaned in delight, bobbing. The small bathroom filled with the bouquet of fresh cookies over-baked with too much chocolate.

  "What's…going…on?" gasped Dee, sloppy pressure of a drunken orgasm building.

  She gripped either side of the toilet lid and arched upward, hovering inches above him. Dee shuddered out of control as the green girl used his cock to furrow a gash down her neck and between her tits. She pumped him deep into her cleavage, her hands creeping up his back and locking onto his shoulders. "Yes," she hissed, dragging her self up to straddle him, his dick cutting a frothing wake down her belly before disappearing between her legs. With the slightest tilt of her hips she pushed him like a piston into her pussy. "Cum in me now," she said, rough-riding him. She pried open his mouth and filled it to bursting with sticky breast. "Eat me now." Gluey green gunk plugged his nose and Dee choked down a river of burning syrup tasting of chocolate cherry cordial candies. "Become me. Now!"

  Dee shivered, muscle tension coiling before explosive release. The green girl's huge, smeary tits slapped and smacked against his smothered face. He caught a glimpse of the long wound his dick had sliced down her chest. He remembered—

  ["…Please, God, no. Let her be okay. Galatea, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"]

  —and he had to look away, tearing his mouth from her fountaining flesh. A few flakes of homemade soap stuck to the white porcelain of the bathroom sink. The mostly empty vials of food coloring clustered around the sink's silvered tap, their colorful, pinched plastic caps of blue, yellow, green, red—Empty. It's empty. The green vial is empty.

  Dee's gaze flashed back to the green girl's face. "Pygmalion," he coughed.

  "Hm?" The green girl's hips rocked in violent jerks. "Eat me, Master," she said, offering him a breast.

  No X. Sober up right fucking now, you fucking idiot. He reached for her shoulders. "Pygmalion," he said, loud and slow.

  Her mouth puckered into the grin of a knowing coquette. "Eat me, 'Pygmalion'."

  Dee stood straight, pushing out, palms flat. The green girl splashed to the floor. "Where is Galatea?" Dee snarled.

  The green girl sat up on all fours. "M-master?" she stammered in an astonished, breathy voice sounding nothing like Galatea.

  The empty vial with the green lid shattered on the floor between her hands, slivers of plastic shrapnel peppering her face. "Where is Galatea?"

  A translucent, ruby red blush spread over her as the solid green receded. "But I'm the one you really want, Master," Black Cherry said, her body streamlining, red batwings rising.

  Dee's blood sang in his ears. "No. Never. You want a master? Go back to Bee or whatever creepy fuck was stupid enough to cook you up."

  The scarlet girl backed away from him, the claws at the end of her wings working at the doorknob. "It should be you," she said, her eyes black and bottomless. The door opened behind her. "My master should be my first."

  Dee raged. "Where. Is. Galatea?"

  "It should have been you," Black Cherry said, whirling about, "but I have no time." Dee lunged for her but a wing claw lashed out and down, tripping Dee up with the tatters of his khakis. He fell forward, his reflexes dulled with bourbon. The scarlet girl vanished down the corridor.

  "Oh, Yves," came Galatea's voice, "looks like dessert's being served early, and I have one Hell of a sweet tooth tonight."

  You come out at night

  That's when the energy comes

  And the dark side's light

  And the vampires roam.

  —Sarah McLachlan, Building a Mystery

  Chapter Two: We End as We Began

  Black Cherry pelted down the little hall. Her wings, cramped in the narrow corridor, trailed straight behind her, the train of a jilted bride fleeing her red wedding. Wing claws carved channels into the plaster walls as she ran. Wasting novilunium, she thought, losing control, losing cohesion. Minutes left, maybe less. She burst from mouth of the hall and into the living room. The couch sat unoccupied. Where is the plaything Master gave me?

  "'Mugger Fleeing the Scene,'" Yves muttered, moving in from his ambush point against the wall behind her to execute the maneuver.

  In the bathroom, Dee attempted to stand but the resistance from the ragged clothing around his knees took him by surprise and he collapsed, his chin dinging the linoleum floor. Fire can't burn me, iron can't break me, but get me drunk and tie my shoelaces together and I'm fucked. He rolled over and sat up, every movement uncertain. No, I got myself drunk. I gave Bee the nanomek. I left Galatea alone. He started clawing himself free of the khaki material one strip at a time. I ripped yet another pair of fucking pants.

  Yves flanked Black Cherry on the left. So, Black Cherry thought as Yves closed the distance between them, plaything wants to play.

  Yves clamped his right hand down around her left wrist. His right foot slid out in front of Black Cherry's left leg as Yves gave her wrist a sharp twist. Was that supposed to hurt? Best act like it, Black Cherry decided, hunching over. Anticipating resistance of her bodyweight, Yves shifted his balance and poured energy into an inward turn, bringing her arm forward and around, trying to use her own momentum to throw her to the floor.

  My turn, plaything. Black Cherry let her arm stretch and Yves' expertly planned wrist-throw became a clumsy taffy-pull. Yves stiffened in surprise, spinning in an unbalanced arc to face the wall. Relishing the feel of Yves' hand locking rigid around her wrist, Black Cherry followed through, her arm snaking out until her palm pushed against the wall. "I'll play with you," she said aloud, her fingers curling backward and down to grip the hand stuck to her wrist, "but by my rules." Her hand pinwheeled around his and she reversed their roles just as quickly, pinning Yves' wrist against the wall and moving close behind him.

  She let go just to see what he would do. His right arm twitched but did not budge from where she had pinned it. His left arm curled against his chest beneath his unbuttoned button-down. He's scared, she realized, watching Yves' fingernails scrape against plaster. Just like Bee. Just like Galatea and all the others. All except Master. She pressed her slinky, naked frame against Yves' frozen
form. Even on tiptoe she could not reach his neck, so she nestled her cheek in the small of his back, breathing deep. Plaything's fear smells sweet and precious, like a rare prize. Imagine how divine Master's fear must be. Imagine!

  "You do not scare easily." Black Cherry snuggled in. "I can tell. I like that. Not like Bee. His fear was sour. Killing him just made it worse, and after eating him the aftertaste lasted hours. Blech," she spat, shuddering at the memory.

  Dee heard something shatter and scatter in the living room, a jarring tuneful sound like the breaking of a pottery jug or a china plate. Sober up and think straight, damn it. He shook his head until the room stopped spinning. Your friends are in trouble. He rose and made for the door. A muddy, ruddy light gave Dee the strange, sickening impression that the short hallway was swollen and bloodshot. He steadied himself by grabbing the doorknob. He started to shout, "Yves—!" but was fuddled by sudden movement of something scarlet and leathery racing down the hallway. A red claw bit into the pressboard wood of the bathroom door and wrenched it shut. Dee jerked at the door, trying to keep it open, but pulled the doorknob and shaft out instead.

  Yves pushed back, trying to spin around. He recovers quickly, Black Cherry thought. She clipped his right hand to the wall with a wing claw, knocking a Deep Space Nine commemorative plate off its hanger. It fragmented when it hit the floor. She craned her neck to peer down the hallway to the bathroom. As quick as Master.

  "Yves—!"

  Black Cherry sighed, sent her other wing hurtling down the hallway to drag the bathroom door shut as it sprang back. She turned to Yves and startled to see he held a short, wicked-edged knife in his left hand. Maybe quicker than Master. Black Cherry wrestled Yves' left arm into a painful pin behind his back. "Now where on Earth did this come from?" she asked, the claw from her returning wing plucking the knife away. She leaned hard against him to maintain the pin and slipped one hand between the wall and his chest. She found a nylon scabbard sewed below the left armpit of the tee shirt beneath his overshirt. "You must have been fishing for your little knife—"

  "Tanto."

  "—this whole time. Readying a strike, even through all that fear. Your little knife—your tanto—would be buried between my breasts now, wouldn't it?" She caressed a wing claw over Yves' cheek. "But you didn't know this little girl had claws."

  A few drops of blood ran down Yves' cheek and beaded in the dimple of his chin. "I do now. I don't make the same mistake twice. Ever."

  "Master didn’t bring me a plaything." Black Cherry reached up Yves' tee shirt and strummed her fingers across his washboard abdomen, purring. "He's given me a playmate. We'll have hours and hours of fun, you and I, but there's something I need first. I tried to get it from Master, but he's not ready for me. He will be, soon, but not yet, and I'm out of time. So, darling Yves," she said, undoing his belt and unzipping his fly, "it looks like you're on the menu after all. On the taster menu, at least."

  Dee dropped the knob, hooked two fingers into the dark, round hole left in the door, and gave a tentative tug. The door stuck fast. Dee sighed. Two swings of his fist brought the door down in splinters and he stepped sideways into hall. A glob of red goop stained the ceiling lamp, casting everything in an unsettling florid light. A chest-high gouge in the plaster of both walls ran the length of the hallway. Whatever had cut them grooved the wood of his bedroom door and left it swinging loose on its hinges. He shuffled by, gave his bedroom a passing glance, and stopped dead. Blinking, he nudged the bedroom door open with outspread fingers.

  When he last saw the room, it resembled a war zone, but now walking into his bedroom was like sticking his head inside a Jackson Pollock painting. Every surface was spattered with chaotic sprays and splashes of black ink and all imaginable shades of red. They fought here, Galatea and the scarlet girl. Dee lurched, taking it all in. The third color dominating the frenzied mess was green. And Galatea lost and the scarlet girl wiped the walls with her. Dee pivoted on his heels, his balance perfect, and stalked out, his fluid gate as steady and sure as a panther closing in on a kill.

  And I'm going to murder the bitch.

  Dee found the scarlet girl standing close to the wall. Her head lolled backward, eyes shut and lips parted in a whimper of relief. Her wide batwings were drawn tight around her petite form in a parody of a cardinal's crimson cloak, locked in place by wing claws stabbing deep into the gelled flesh of her shoulders. "Much better," she sighed, eyes still closed. Her claws withdrew, burgundy nectar weeping from the ragged wounds they left behind. "I can feel the novilunium. I can feel its music, its blood music." Her wings relaxed and unwound, slowly exposing a second figure squeezed so tight and close to the scarlet girl Dee had not noticed it before. "My compliments to the chef, Yves." The scarlet girl released her captive. "That was choice."

  Yves staggered back from her, clothes haggard and wine-stained, his eyes incandescent with rage. "Fuck you," he replied, and punched her in the throat.

  Her neck distended with the force of Yves' blow but her head remained perched above her shoulders. Her eyes opened, her wings swooped back in but hesitated, their long, needle sharp claws quivering inches from Yves' face. She met his unflinching glare for a second more before swiveling her gaze to Dee. "Master?" the scarlet girl said, her smile coy but sly. "I have time now."

  "Dee?" Yves said, his eyes never leaving the two raptorial claws hovering close to his temples.

  "Yes, Yves?"

  Red nectar dripped down onto Yves face. "You're still standing?"

  "Yes, Yves."

  The scarlet girl chuckled, turning her head as each man spoke, like a spectator watching a tennis match.

  "Well, then," Yves said, "Remember what I said about your stupid straight-guy hero routine?"

  "Yes, Yves."

  "I was an idiot." Yves fell back. The scarlet girl's claws clacked together in empty air as Yves flipped down and away in textbook, backward break-fall. "Kill the bitch," he panted, crawled a few feet closer to the front door before he collapsed, every muscle trembling and oiled in sweat.

  "Way ahead of you, Yves," Dee muttered, moving between Yves and the scarlet girl.

  The scarlet girl marveled at him, perfect breasts heaving. "You smell wonderful, Master; so angry." Batwings the color of blood and smoke luxuriated in the air of the living room. "I love it." Narrow rivulets of red nectar trickled from her sex to run down her inner thighs. "You won't regret coming back to me. I'm so much stronger for you now." She reached out to him, fingers flexing. "I'm ready."

  ["…I'm ready. I'm ready. I'm ready…"]

  Dee advanced into the radius of her wingspan. "You're finished."

  "Oh, Master," she gasped, agape with delight, before her eyes narrowed and her lips twisted into a thin, crooked grin. Her batwings snapped ready, their tiny twins above her ears fanning up and back until she looked like a helmeted Valkyrie who had fell to Hell. "Bring it."

  Dee rushed her. The scarlet girl's wingtips meshed and merged behind him. Streams of gel pulsed out from her core to course through the membranes of her wings, ringing Dee in thick walls seeping with sanguine syrup, their bakery-oven smell overpowering. Dee crossed his forearms in front of his chest and hooked his fingers outward. The scarlet girl's crooked grin crept higher as Dee stormed closer and the gel walls surrounding them contracted inward like an iris. The drizzle of inner nectar dripping from her pussy surged, her legs lost in the torrent fueling the flood bearing down upon Dee. His hands stabbed into her dissolving shoulders just as the collapsing gel crashed down on all sides, a torrid kiss over every inch of his skin and a siphon over his cock, its smothering pressure building without plateau or any hint it would ever stop. Dee spun his fingers deep into her flesh and uncrossed his arms, drawing them downward and out behind him.

  Dee tore the scarlet girl apart, opening a v-necked gully in the crushing red sea, and bulldozed through. He emerged clean as a whistle, not a single drop of cherry jam sticking to him. He skidded to a halt before bonking against the living roo
m window and twirled about-face.

  The scarlet girl funneled to the floor in a confusion of tangled limbs and funhouse-mirror distorted shapes. "Master," she sobbed when the two halves of her face zippered together the right way around, "it hurts. You hurt me." She curled into a fetal ball, wracked with spasm. "You hurt me so much."

  Dee charged. The scarlet girl rolled onto her knees. Her wings plunged forward, their claws digging into Dee's underarms and hoisting him into the air. She leapt to her feet, her wings accelerating until Dee's back smashed into the ceiling. "Do it again!" she crowed through the rain of plaster, honey bleeding from both pairs of lips.

  The scarlet girl twittered and flexed her claws, testing their grip, digging into Dee's armpits. Dee bared his teeth in a gritty, mirthless leer, wrapping his arms in the rubbery folds of her wings. Her murmurs melted into a lush, eager purr as she pulled her wings taut, stretching Dee's arms out wide until she had him crucified on the ceiling. "I want to do every sick, perverted, and twisted thing with my master."

  Dee shrugged hard, his left shoulder rolling forward. A clockwise curlicue corkscrewed down the scarlet girl's right wing. A heartbeat later Dee shrugged again, rolling his right shoulder backward. A counterclockwise torque galloped down the left wing. The scarlet girl's cry of shock caught in her throat when the two opposing torsions met in her core and blew her to bits. She burst with a hollow, plosive pooch! noise, pelting Dee with stinging spray of black-and-crimson gunk as he plummeted to the floor like an Acme anvil. He tucked his legs in at the last second and punched feet-first through the coffee table. The table caved in, its faux mahogany pressboard top fractured and folded up at crazy angles. Dee stood in the wreckage, knees bent and arms akimbo, an earthbound Peter Pan.